


Prone to Wander

by DoubleNegative



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Blow Jobs, Johnlock Roulette, Kissing, M/M, Prompt Fic, Sexual Content, overly poetic sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-20
Updated: 2015-03-20
Packaged: 2018-03-18 18:25:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3579435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoubleNegative/pseuds/DoubleNegative
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"So this is what it's like," he thinks. "To see and not quantify, to hear and not record."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prone to Wander

The thing about being a genius--the thing about noticing everything, all the time, under every circumstance--is that the mind tends to wander.

It's not, for instance, as though Sherlock doesn't like to eat. It's a waste of valuable time, on occasion, but he does like food. (He especially likes food that John cooks him, and even more so, food that John nags him to eat.)

But simple enjoyment alone isn't enough to occupy his mind, not with a million other details, salient and otherwise, clamoring to distract him. He'll sit with a meal, after just enough showy reluctance to make John feel as though Sherlock is granting him a favor, but his mind races away before he’s swallowed the second bite.

Beans on toast, for instance. A bachelor staple and John’s go-to comfort cooking. And yet: the beans taste different this time. The beans _are_ different this time. Two possibilities: different brand--or same brand, new recipe? Consider: John isn't especially brand loyal, but he is a creature of habit who prefers to shop efficiently. He'll grab the same tinned beans every week, just to be out of the shops faster. Therefore: new recipe. What's different? More vinegar. More vinegar? No. _Different_ vinegar. Cider vinegar. Which leads him straight to the pigs' ears and pickling spices in the fridge, and has him peering at skin samples under the microscope before he's finished his fifth bite. By the time he clips the third slide in, John has taken his own plate into the sitting room with a disgusted huff at the smell, and Sherlock has forgotten he was even eating in the first place. He might find the plate a few hours later, the half-eaten toast gone soggy, and might remember with a rumble in his stomach that he’d meant to finish that, but then again… he might not. 

So when John finally kisses him, curling a hand around his bicep and bringing their mouths together with the careful courage of a man who’s considered all his options and decided to jump off the cliff anyway, Sherlock does not expect that to be so very different.

And it’s not, at first. Sherlock can kiss and catalogue, of course he can. He’s done it for loads of cases. John tastes of Tetley’s and toast and tinned beans, smells of soap and the London winter. His lips, thin and soft beneath Sherlock’s, are warm and a little chapped (February, blustery, walked home from the surgery earlier, and he’s been licking them: nervous? nervous. but why-- _oh_ ). Mrs. Hudson bustles below them--dusting, by the sound of it--and outside, traffic ebbs and flows.

John pulls away then, and for a split second Sherlock’s entire being, mind and body, is consumed by a flash of disappointment.

John licks his lips. “Is this-- is this all right?” he asks. “If I’ve misjudged…”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Sherlock says, and pulls him back in. There’s more to know, so much more, taste and scent and touch and sight, and besides all that, he finds he simply _likes_ kissing John. It's as fascinating as any experiment. It feels warm and right and a little bit dangerous: it is a crime scene and a dressing gown by the fire and good red wine all at once.

And like red wine, it goes to his head. Quickly, so quickly--just a few seconds into this second kiss and Sherlock’s mind begins to slow and fog. He can feel the faint rasp of John’s stubble, but cannot, alarmingly, discern how long it’s been since he shaved. And is that John’s soap he smells, or his shampoo? (Or both?) He can’t quite tell, but more alarming still, he can’t quite care.

John’s hand slides from Sherlock’s arm to his shoulder to the nape of his neck, and Sherlock tries to spare a few synapses for the state of John’s callouses, but instead of cataloging their development, he’s reveling in their journey across his skin, the goosebumps they raise. And then John sighs as he tangles his fingers ever-so-gently in Sherlock’s hair and scratches his nails along Sherlock’s scalp, and Sherlock is utterly gone.

They fumble their clothes off and it’s good, it’s very good. John’s nude body is an expressionist masterwork: smooth passages of unmarked skin give way to a thicket of scar tissue, a topography of texture and detail. Sherlock could spend hours memorizing the slide of John’s muscles under his skin as he strips off trousers and pants, twists to drape his shirt over the chair. The act of removing one’s socks has never struck Sherlock as particularly erotic, but the curl of John’s spine and the flex of his calves as he takes his off have Sherlock wondering if it would be too much too fast for him to simply drop to his knees right there.

It won’t be, he decides.

It isn’t, John’s appreciative moan assures him.

Better even than kissing, Sherlock concludes, and he wants to pursue that thought-- _why_ is it better than kissing? Isn’t it just a different form of kissing, really? And how, _how_ is it having such a physical effect on him? So little of his body is actually touching John’s body and _still_ \--! He wonders if he could come like this, untouched, when John does, pure sympathetic reactions, mind alone tugging his willing body over the edge.

But his attempts at analysis wither and fade at touch of John’s fingers to his head. No pressure, no pushing or pulling, just the curve of his hand perfectly matched to the curve of Sherlock’s skull, and Sherlock’s curls twining between his fingers. Sherlock curves his own hands around John’s buttocks, tense now with the effort of staying upright, of not thrusting.

Outside at the kerb, two cabbies argue over right-of-way. In Speedy’s, Mr. Chatterjee starts a new pot of coffee. In 221A, Mrs. Hudson takes the hoover out of the closet. In 221B, Sherlock ignores them all. Instead he hollows his cheeks around John’s cock and learns to draw a symphony from him with every flick of his tongue. The sounds roll over him, sliding down his spine, dripping between his fingers. He could play those notes, if he wanted to, compose them for a string quartet. But the urge is fleeting, and easily flicked away. _So this is what it’s like_ , he thinks, opening his eyes to see the flush of pink spreading across John’s chest. That color has a name, he knows, a hexadecimal code and a Pantone number, but he dismisses the thought as soon as it occurs to him. _This is what it’s like: to see and not quantify, to hear and not record._

He will memorize later, replay it again and again, from every angle, at high speeds and in slow motion, but right now--right now just tasting is enough, just feeling. _This is what it’s like_ , he realizes. This is what it’s like to not wander.

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, man.
> 
> Um. Written for the current round of the "Come at Once" challenge on LJ, with LordStarfish's prompt "the mind tends to wander." I am a literal soul, it seems, and also a very tired one lately, so I don't think I've taken it in any unexpected directions.
> 
> The challenge being what it is, this has not been beta'd or Brit-picked, AND I wrote the first few paragraphs on my phone, on the Metro, during my evening commute. You may blame any spelling errors or strange word choices on the bumpy ride and awful predictive text mechanisms. That may also explain why there are more reflections on beans and toast than one generally expects in a porn fic. 
> 
> That's all I got, I think... unless you'd like to follow my (lately neglected) tumblr, onethousandhurrahs.


End file.
